


Manus

by sir



Category: Walking Dead
Genre: Finger Sucking, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:53:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2524688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sir/pseuds/sir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl has a thing for hands. Rick has a thing for Daryl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manus

Rick talks with his hands.

There's a lot you don't notice about a person with the constant presence of danger distracting you from ever making a real connection. Daryl is especially guilty of this, focusing on the task at hand and following it obsessively until the plan reaches completion. They had arrived at the Greene's farm a few weeks ago now, and the hunter had been noticing things about his fellow survivors that never occurred to him as they were fleeing Atlanta. Glenn chews his nails. Andrea hates when her bra strap is showing. Shane cracks his knuckles when he's bored.

Ricks hands are endlessly at work. Even when they're shoved by his side, he watches them twitch and curl as he talks to Hershel and barks out the chores for the day. He watches them drum on the water bottle as he idles on the porch, or the long, sinewy fingers gripping his fork at dinner time. He likes examining their length as Rick brings his fingers to face, resting his chin in his palm.

This particular time, Rick locks eyes with Daryl as he watches the long digits. Daryl catches his eye and looks away, embarrassed. Rick kisses Lori's cheek and excuses himself from the table, his eyes lingering a little too long on a rather flustered Daryl Dixon. It's not the first time he's been caught, and every time he notices Rick's piercing eyes resting on him, the other man will leave, only to return within the hour and joke with Daryl as if nothing happened. Tonight, Daryl excuses himself too.

Carefully, he stalks upstairs, following the creaks of the wooden floor and avoiding stepping on them himself. He's done this a million times before, hunting deer or rabbits in the woods. He's good at it. Hershel's door is slightly ajar and he can see a figure inside. Daryl nudges open the door.

Rick's in Hershel's old armchair, pants around his ankles, shirt unbuttoned and parted to show his lithe, hairy torso. He's trailing one hand over his chest, the other giving long strokes to a swollen, red cock. Rick notices and pauses. When Daryl doesn't move, he starts up again, stroking slowly and thoughtfully, the same hungry gaze that Daryl gets when he's caught. His stomach is in knots, his own cock twitching in his pants and he wants to leave but his feet feel glued to the floor. He shouldn't be here. He doesn't know what to say.

Rick takes a long thumb and slides it under his balls to bounce them, then grips his cock tightly to strike it against his belly. Every wet slap brings a new burn to Daryl's crotch, something he hasn't experienced in a long time. He should say something but his mouth feels fused shut, teeth buried in his lower lip.

He has no idea what possesses him to hike up his shirt, exposing his taut stomach with that tantalizing trail of hair that dips under his waistband. Rick says nothing but speeds up his strokes, unaware of his mouth hanging agape until his lips become dry and he needs to dart his tongue out to wet them once more.

Rick moves his hand on top of his shaft, curling his fingers to form a tight hole. He leans forward, head tilted down but eyes still trained on Daryl's under a furrowed brow. He thrusts hard into his own hand, with purpose, unaffected as his fingers begin to glisten from the precum. The unwavering gaze bores into Daryl and he swallows hard, unable to fight the image of Rick pressing him against the wall and thrusting with the same intensity as he's affording to his hand, the prickly scratch of a beard on the back of his neck and sweat stinging his eyes. Next thing he knows, he's speaking up:

“Switch yer hand.” Daryl mutters. It's almost said too quietly, but the only others sounds in the room are Rick's increasingly ragged breathing and the dull thud of his balls on the worn fabric of the seat.

Rick does as he's told, sitting back in the chair and switching to his right hand. The left rests on the arm of the chair, coated in saliva and precum. He watches Daryl scratch his scruffy beard nervously and close the door tightly behind him, then drops to a squat in front of Rick's limp hand. Daryl tips his head and, after some deliberation, flicks his tongue out over a particularly sticky finger. Rick tastes like stale sweat, earthy and slick with a strong masculine scent. He takes Rick's finger into his mouth, down to the knuckle and his nose is nuzzling into that rough, calloused palm. Rick's heart jumps into his throat and he's practically bucking into his fevered strokes, eyes lidded as the warmth of Daryl's tongue envelops his skin.

Rick brings a second finger to Daryl's lips, running the length of them and probing inward, which Daryl takes in alongside the first. Rick cautiously presses in further until Daryl gags, giving a high whimper that reverberates straight to the tip of his cock. It must've done something for Daryl too, who immediately reaches to roughly thumb his crotch through his pants.

It's a thrill to Daryl, watching certain actions cause Rick to speed up or make the hairs on his arm stand on end. He pulls Rick's fingers from his mouth with a pop and nuzzles into his palm, moaning a little louder in his gruff, lazy southern drawl. Rick's hand stiffens and he begins making a series of “uh..” groans, gripping the base of his cock as his face contorts and his brow angles in a pained expression. He ejaculates, jerking cum in all directions as he continues making that noise that enthralls and excites Daryl. There's a small pool around his belly button and its dripping in tracks down his hand.

Daryl doesn't know where his mind has been, but he suddenly snaps back and stands up suddenly. Rick is trying to catch his breath, and looks down to the tent in Daryl's slacks.

“Your turn?” He sounds exhausted. The lazy grin on his face brings a tug to the corner of Daryl's mouth but he's still a little shaken by what just transpired. He mumbles something in response and hurries out of the room, leaving Rick alone.

For the remainder of their time at the farm, neither man would speak of that evening

* * *

When the group moved to the prison, Daryl made sure to sleep in a cell far away from anyone else. Carol expressed concern at Daryl isolating himself from the safety of their numbers, especially with what had happened to her daughter, but Daryl convinced her that he needed to be alone.

Each night, Daryl sits on the edge of his bed, pulls his cock from his underwear and masturbates to thoughts of that evening in Hershel's room. Each night he brings himself to orgasm, imagining those slender fingers running over his own length. Tonight, those fingers curl appear through the darkness and hang limp on the bars of his cell door.

“This why you asked for a room far away from us?” Rick's head comes to rest against the bars. He's smiling, looking Daryl up and down with that same, familiar hunger. It's something that's Daryl hasn't been able to replicate exactly in his thoughts, and his dick jumps up against his stomach at the man's sleepy voice.

“Jesus, Rick, I-”

“C'mere.”

Daryl lets his boxers slip off his feet and walks naked to the bars of his cell. Rick trails his finger down Daryl's thigh and cups his balls, rolling them in his palm. Daryl presses his face against the bars too, Rick's heady scent feels his nostrils and the thick, bushy beard tickles against his upper lip. Rick rubs Daryl's nose with his own.

“Don't.”

“Don't?”

“Don't kiss me. I'm not... just...” Daryl pauses, “Just your hands.”

“Just my hands.”

Rick pushes back Daryl's foreskin with his thumb and trails it over the head, paying special attention to the sensitive slit. Daryl's already breathing heavily, his cock jumping against his stomach and leaving sticky wet spots below his belly button. Rick tugs Daryl's foreskin down under his head and massages the base where the skin connects. Daryl's whining again and it's music to Rick, the soundtrack to his orgasms over the last month brought right to his ear, Daryl's breath hot against his skin.

“I think I'm gonna...”

“Yeah?” Rick smiles, patting his thigh, “Turn around then.”

Daryl complies, resting his back against the bars and Rick's hands slide through the bars and under his arms. He feels Rick's cock pressed against his back, throbbing through his jeans. Rick grips his cock and begins stroking, picking up the pace as those rough hands get to work. Daryl's moans grow louder and he begins humping into Rick's fist, desperate for release. Rick holds out his hand as Daryl is brought to orgasm, catching cum in his palm as the other is spills himself with a moan. Rick's name is husky in Daryl's throat, over and over until he's shot every last drop into Rick's rough paw. Rick's hands disappear from view and Daryl slumps down, legs parted so not to disturb his spent cock. His legs feel like jelly and it'll be a while before he can stand up again. Rick looks at the mess in his hand and grins. He considers saying something, but leaves Daryl with a sated smile on his face and heads back to his cell, fully intending to do the same the next night.


End file.
